


Leave a Mark

by aurora_australis



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Because when else will I get to use that tag ;-), Developing Relationship, F/M, MFMM Smutuary, Phrack Fucking Friday, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-17 04:55:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29219832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aurora_australis/pseuds/aurora_australis
Summary: A comment, a look, and a cough.As far as evidence went, it was fairly slim. But in her career as a detective, Phryne had followed hunches on less, and she was now well and truly convinced:Jack Robinson had a tattoo.A Smutuary 2021 entry for the prompt: tattoo.
Relationships: Phryne Fisher/Jack Robinson
Comments: 30
Kudos: 96
Collections: Smutuary 2021





	Leave a Mark

**Author's Note:**

> So, yes, I have an entry for Smutuary. And, believe you me, no one is more surprised by this development than I am. But I had an idea and I liked it and I figured, it's 2021... why not do something that scares you?
> 
> Many, many thanks to my lovely beta/cheerleader Arlome, and to Allison_Wonderland for kindly organizing this month o' Phracking!

A comment, a look, and a cough.

As far as evidence went, it was fairly slim. But in her career as a detective, Phryne had followed hunches on less, and she was now well and truly convinced:

Jack Robinson had a tattoo.

It had started during that business with the Imperial Club. After they’d interviewed Father Blackburn, on their way back to the station, Phryne had commented that, being in the Navy and all, she’d expected the man to have larger tattoos.

He’d been driving, not giving the conversation his full attention. “Hard to keep the big ones clean in war,” he’d said vaguely, without, she thought, even realizing he had said it.

Interesting.

Trying to prove herself right, she’d examined him _very_ closely in that bathing suit — purely as part of her investigation, of course — but hadn’t found one on him then, and afterward she’d chalked her suspicions up to an abundant imagination. But then there was a moment during the Abbottsford case, after she’d been admiring Harry Harper’s, _ahem_ , tattoo. 

She’d asked him, teasingly, if all Abbottsford men had such impressive tattoos, and she’d expected some light teasing in response, perhaps even a look of exasperation or a word of chastisement. Instead he’d looked… guilty.

 _Very_ interesting.

But their next case had gone… poorly, and so she’d spent a decent amount of time after that trying not to think of Jack Robinson or his stupid tattoo.

They’d mended though, what was broken, and somehow moved on all the stronger for it, with a better understanding of where the cracks were, and soon she found herself once again on the receiving end of some very, very interesting evidence regarding her personal ink-quiry.

It was late, they were looking at mugshots alone in his office, and she’d come across one of a man with a design completely covering his neck. She’d smiled to herself and remarked naughtily, “you know, they say the bigger the tattoo, the more they’re trying to compensate for something else.”

Again, she’d expected a specific type of reaction to her comment — a sigh, a frown, a good old-fashioned eye roll. What she got, though, was a cough.

It was an unintentional cough, to be sure, but when coupled with the unambiguous expression on his face, it was also unmistakable in meaning.

It was a cough that said if Jack Robinson did have a tattoo, it was very small indeed.

And she was now more convinced than ever that he had one.

Interesting….

~~~~~~~

In recent weeks, she hasn’t given his hypothetical tattoo a terrible amount of thought outside of deciding for herself that he has one. Not until Strano’s. Not until he suggests they make do with each other.

Then she can’t stop thinking about it. 

She finds herself uncharacteristically anxious about what it will be, what a solid, serious man like Jack Robinson would choose to affix to his person for all time. She is a little worried, she will admit if only to herself, that it will be Rosie’s name — which would have been a perfectly understandable choice for a newly married man who still expected happily ever after — not because she begrudges him his past love, but because it will be a constantly present reminder of the kind of permanence she can never offer.

It is why she has never gotten one herself. Permanence has never sat well with her — there is always another port, another pleasure, another man, another joy.

And the only name she’s ever considered belongs in the heavens and not bound to her earthly body.

So no, she doesn’t have one. But Jack does, she is fairly sure, and as they fly further and faster towards…. _something_ , she knows that soon she will very likely be able to confirm for herself.

She just wishes the thought didn’t fill her with a small sliver of trepidation.

It won’t stop her though; Phryne Fisher doesn't let nerves stand between her and the things she wants.

And she wants Jack Robinson.

~~~~~~~

Turns out, he wants her too.

There is nothing special, in particular, about that evening: a drink, then two, a kiss, then three. 

Nothing special except they are both ready.

And then it is further and further and faster and faster until somehow they are in her boudoir and her dress is being tugged over her head and his shirt is already gone and his hands are bloody _everywhere_ and she is pulling at his trousers and then she remembers.

The tattoo.

She is a clever woman, she’d figured out ages ago where it must be in order for her to have not seen it in Queenscliff.

Her fingers fumble.

He takes the opportunity to kiss her shoulder, her neck, the hollow of her throat.

She tries again for his waistband, but she can’t seem to get the buttons to work. Her fingers tremble slightly while his are sure and steady, gliding up her thigh and brushing over her nipples and teasing shudders out of her and _jesus christ how many hands does the man have?_

She yanks on his trousers once more and he chuckles.

“I must admit, I assumed you had some experience with these, Miss Fisher, considering you wear them yourself.”

She can’t take it anymore.

“What is it?” she blurts out, his amused expression transforming into one of confusion.

“What is what?”

“Your tattoo!”

The confusion morphs into surprise morphs into a knowing smile.

“The complications of wooing a detective,” he mutters fondly, gently removing her still useless hands and taking over himself.

He has no trepidation, the trousers and smalls gone in one and then there it is, salaciously low on his left hip, finally confirming her suspicions.

Jack Robinson’s tattoo.

But — and this part is a surprise — it isn’t a name at all. It is a stem, and some leaves, and some small, round... fluff.

Phryne sits down on the bed to examine it closer. “It’s a flower,” she says, a little puzzled, because it’s definitely not a rose. 

“Golden Wattle,” he clarifies, running a long finger over the stem, the ink slightly bumpy from sitting over part of a shrapnel scar. “The bloke who gave it to me was familiar enough to do a pretty decent job.”

“Yes…” She is still confused, but chases his slow moving fingers with her own, mapping out the small mark for herself.

“It was in France,” he begins slowly, and she looks up to stop him. 

“You don’t have to,” she says earnestly.

“I want to,” he replies, just as sincere. “It was a few years in, I was recovering from some injuries,” he gestures vaguely at his scars. “And I started to think I’d never see home again. But I kept having these… dreams. Memories actually.” He shifts his weight from foot to foot and the flower sways as though in a breeze.

“See my dad and I used to take these long hikes and we’d always bring back Golden Wattles for my mum when we did. Goodness knows why, it’s hardly the most ornate wildflower. But she loved the yellow colour and we loved her, so... Anyway I kept dreaming about it, and one morning I woke up and thought, well, if you have some Golden Wattles for mum, you have to bring them home to her. You have to make it home. So I asked the local tattooist and he obliged and there you go.” He smiles ruefully. “Not much of a story, I’m afraid.”

“I think it’s beautiful,” she tells him, her fingers still caressing the flower, her words equally meant for his speech and the flora. She brushes her knuckles over his hip. “But why here?”

The smile turns a little bashful. “I, ah, well if I survived, I didn’t want my mum to ever see it. Tattoos are kind of… it just wouldn’t go well, trust me. So this felt like the safest place.”

Her worries gone, Phryne indulges in a fond smile — _this man_ — and refocuses on what is, quite literally in front of her face. She leans in to give the tattoo a little kiss, then glances up to meet his eyes.

“Well you were wrong there, Jack.”

“Hmmmm?”

She moves her head a little to the left and the smile turns positively wicked. “You’re not safe here at all.”

She says very little after that, though Jack has a fair few obscenities to share.

Later — much, much later and fair play to Jack for that — she runs her hands over his left hip, caressing the small, delicate flower.

“Did you ever think about getting another one?” she asks sleepily.

Jack doesn’t open his eyes to respond. “No. Those were special circumstances.”

She nods. “It’s for the best,” she agrees, smiling a little cheekily to herself. “‘Phryne’ can be hard for people to spell.”

“I take it you’ve had your fair share of eager young men marking themselves with Greek courtesans?” he asks dryly.

“I wouldn’t know,” she replies imperiously. “They certainly didn’t _seem_ like classics scholars at the time.”

Jack laughs and pulls her closer.

They are quiet, then, for a long time. So long she thinks he has fallen asleep.

“It’s unnecessary anyway,” he whispers finally, in a tone that suggests he thinks she has fallen asleep too. “That was to remind me of home. When I’m with you, I’m already there.”

The statement should scare her, but it doesn’t.

And they sleep.

~~~~~~~

She practically wrenches him through the doorway, hands shoving off his coat before the front door has even slammed shut. She’d worry she’s being too rough except the minute she slows her momentum he picks his up, nudging her firmly backwards towards the stairs, his hands already tangled in her hair, his lips on her own. The moment she hits the first step she jumps up to straddle his hips and without missing a beat he begins staggering up the stairs while she distracts him by nibbling his earlobe.

“Stop that or we’ll fall,” he groans, undermining his own words by palming her backside with purpose.

Phryne continues her amorous assault. “I’m just giving you incentive to hurry up,” she insists.

“Five weeks apart is incentive enough,” he murmurs into her neck as he finally gets them both into the bedroom. He kicks the door closed with his foot and then unceremoniously dumps her on the bed, where she is surprised — and a little proud — to realize he already undid her stocking on the trek up. 

No time for applause now, though; he’s already tossed his suit jacket away and is now making short work of his waistcoat buttons and even as she throws the stockings to the side she is falling behind in their race.

It is but the work of a moment and her blouse and skirt are gone. Her garter belt and knickers follow shortly after, but before she can remove her camisole a hand reaches over to stop her.

He’s down to his trousers now, braces swinging low, and there is fire in his eyes. With no apparent exertion he pulls her to her feet and spins her so his front is to her back. With a slowness she didn’t think him capable of after that speed-race up the stairs he moves his fingers slowly up her thighs — the tips nearly but not quite grazing where she actually wants him — and then further up still. He catches the hem of the camisole and drags it up her body, slowly, slowly, torturously slowly, making sure she feels every inch of the soft silk and his calloused hands as they pass respectively over first her belly and then her breasts. Once he reaches her shoulders, he pulls the offending garment off fully and tosses it behind him, leaning in to speak low in her ear.

“I ask very little, Phryne,” he growls, the low tones doing exceptionally pleasant things to the pit of her stomach and parts south. “Please do not deprive me of the great joy that is getting you naked.” She is about to quip something about early birds and worms but then one hand is curving in to slowly tease a now hard nipple and the other is working behind her to remove the last of his unwanted attire and she decides she can afford to be magnanimous, just this once.

He is pressed so tightly to her back that she can feel all of him and good _god_ does she want to feel all of him. She hears the trousers and smalls hit the floor and feels him step out of them, and then his touch is _everywhere_ and she has long ago stopped asking how many hands he has.

It’s a good number whatever it is.

He pinches and she moans so he pinches again and she is ready, ready, so ready. She considers letting him take her like this, but it’s been five weeks — their longest time apart in years — and she has missed his beautiful face just as much as the rest of him. So she spins herself in his arms and falls back onto the bed, ready to take matters into her own hands, so to speak, when she sees it.

The other it.

The other it that is, quite literally, in front of her face.

He has a new tattoo.

She looks up at him in surprise and he shrugs, though the casualness of the gesture is clearly a little forced. 

She leans in closer to examine it. It mirrors the first one in placement, sitting scandalously low on his right hip. Like the flower it is a small riot of curves, but it is not a flower, and as she follows the lovely loops at the top she sees they lead into a straight line — it is the hilt of a sword. Scottish, if she isn’t mistaken, but it is small enough she can’t be sure; she supposes he doesn’t want his mother to see this one, either.

“Jack?”

He shrugs again. “I was in Sydney while you were away — I went up to see the new bridge — and a mate of mine owns a tattoo parlour and I just thought…” 

He gives her a smile she would almost call shy. “It’s to remind me how I want to live life — or live life _to_ , if you want to get specific. In case I ever forget.”

A memory from their past, precious and a little painful, briefly steals the air from her lungs. 

_“Not that I noticed you wasting a moment.”_

Her quick intake of air must be audible because he hurries to explain. “I’m not... I’m not asking anything of you, Phryne. And I’m not expecting anything, I swear. This is just for me. But whatever happens later, however this thing between us turns out in the end, you’ve... well you’ve changed me for the better. Permanently. And I just wanted to, I don’t know, celebrate that.”

“Special circumstances?” she asks quietly.

Jack meets her eyes, clearly relieved. “Precisely.”

_This man._

She nods and rises to her knees, putting her arms around his neck and pulling him in for a kiss. When they part, she leans her forehead against his.

“You’ve changed me for the better too, you know,” she whispers.

He looks surprised, pleased and skeptical all at once and she has no choice but to kiss the entire lot of emotions off his face until he is back in the moment and, judging from the sudden hardness now bobbing at her midsection, quite back in the mood.

As he slowly lowers her to the bed her eyes move back to the sword hilt, thrusting and parrying a bit into his hip as he moves into a more comfortable position.

It should scare her, but it doesn’t.

In fact, she rather likes it. And, for the first time in her life, Phryne considers getting one of her own.

Just for her.

It would have to be somewhere small, of course, one never knows when an impromptu fan dance might be called for. And hidden. Perhaps hidden so well that Jack wouldn’t even find it. And it would have to be meaningful of course; if she was doing permanence of any kind she was doing it right.

Perhaps a pirate ship pursued by a milk cart?

The image makes her chuckle but her laugh turns into a gasp when his fingers begin a riposte of their own and he starts mapping all the potential real estate with his tongue.

Yes, people change. Jack has. She has. And so, if the only constant in life is change, then maybe that means she is ready for a little permanence in her life too.

Just a little, mind.

And later.

Because right now Jack’s tongue is going further and further and faster and faster and she is close, close, so very very close.

She catches a glimpse of the wildflower in the mirror.

And she is home. 

**Author's Note:**

> What is Smutuary? Well you can read all about it (and even participate yourself, hint hint) [here!!](https://ohrosewhatsinaname.tumblr.com/post/641757621217525760/its-almost-time-smutuary-ao3-collection)
> 
> Also, this fic was, no joke, about 30 seconds away from being titled, "Tit for Tat" and was only saved at the last minute because I had to concede to myself that that was not the right tone for the story. But you've all been warned - it's 2021 and who knows how reasonable I'll be next time. 😂


End file.
